Frequently we felt very sure we saw also that no small share of their
captivating glow was reflected from Senda's replies--of which she never
would tell us a word. The faults in his written English were surprisingly
few, and to our minds only the more endeared it and him. Maybe we were not
judicial critics.
Yet we could pass strictures, and as the months lengthened out into years
these winged proxies stirred up, on our side of the street, a profound and
ever-growing impatience. O, yes, every letter was a garden of beautiful
thoughts, still; but think of it! _pansies_ where roses might have been;
and a garden wherein--to speak figuratively--the nightingale never sang.
On a certain day of All Saints, the fourth after the scourge, Senda sat at
tea with us. Our mood was chastened, but peaceful. We had come from
visiting at the sunset hour the cemetery where in the morning the two
women and our old nurse had decked the tombs of our dead with flowers. I
had noticed that at no tomb front were these tokens piled more abundantly,
or more beautifully or fragrantly, than at those of Flora and the
entomologist; it was always so. I had remarked this on the spot, and
Senda, with her rearranging touch still caressing their splendid masses,
replied,
"So?--vell--I hope siss shall mine vork and mine pleassure be until
mineself I shall fade like se floweh.
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